The Price of Murder
by Random Phantom
Summary: When a student is found dead in Wytham Woods, Lewis and Hathaway are faced with multiple suspects, none of whom seem capable of telling the truth. In a tangled web of lies, how can they unravel the truth behind an apparently motiveless murder?
1. Chapter 1

Gentle sunlight filtered through the trees overhead, an early morning glow that warned of the oncoming onslaught of the day's heat. Oxford was basking in a high summer heat wave - it was late August, and over the past week temperatures had been spiking in the range of 30 degrees C. However, in the post-dawn sunlight, it remained cool enough for Ranger Pete Davies to be out in Wytham Woods, taking his Alsatian, Max, out for a walk. Pete avoided the well-trodden public footpaths, knowing the woods well enough to find his way around without the need of the walks signposted for the tourists and day-trippers, who would arrive later to picnic, walk, and bask in the warm sunshine, or take shelter in the shade of the trees. He hummed to himself as he walked at a steady pace, occasionally called out to Max, picking up sticks and throwing them for the boisterous dog to fetch back to him. On one such run off into the trees, Max suddenly stopped, staring straight ahead.

"Max?" Pete called out, "Max, you daft sod – come on!"

Max whined, and then barked. Pete sighed. Clearly, Max had seen something that he wanted to investigate, but he was too well trained to simply run off. Pete glanced at his watch. Knowing Max, it was probably a dead animal or something. He decided to check it out – he still had a good couple of hours before he needed to open the public car park, and if some poor creature had died nearby, he should probably remove it – they were within 100 yards of one of the public footpaths, and he could do without complaints from visitors about having stumbled across a grisly scene from nature despite the warnings to stick to the paths.

"All right, I'm coming," he said, when Max barked again.

He trekked across the uneven woodland, until he came to stand beside Max. The Alsatian's tail wafted slowly from side to side as he looked up at Pete faithfully. Pete, however, was transfixed in horror. He was standing at the top of a natural ditch, which in the winder would be a water-logged stream, but which had been baked dry in the summer heat. There, at the bottom of the ditch, lay a man's body, the throat cut, the eyes staring distantly at nothing. Pete turned away, but could not get the image out of his head. Shakily, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his mobile 'phone, and began to dial.

~*~

Sergeant Hathaway stood in the early morning heat with his sleeves rolled up and his tie loosened, the top button if his shirt undone in a nod to the hot weather that was making everyone uncomfortable, especially the scene of crimes officers in their overalls. He was stood beyond the line of police tape wrapped around several nearby tree-trunks, itching for a cigarette but resisting the temptation, as he finished the interview with Pete Davies, the ranger who had found the body. The ranger's dog was sitting obediently beside his owner, who absently fussed the dog's ears as he talked to the sergeant.

"…That's about all there is to say, really," Pete shrugged, "I'm sorry I can't be of more help. I don't tend to stay on site much – you'd have to talk to Craig Wilkins. He's the full time ranger. He lives in the lodge near the Great Wood."

"Thanks," Hathaway nodded, writing that down, "sorry – I thought dogs weren't allowed in the woods?"

"Yeah, well," Pete shrugged, as Max looked up at him, "I've sort of got special dispensation. Besides, if it weren't for Max, I'd never have come across that body."

"Maybe I should be taking a statement from Max," Hathaway joked, dryly, "one more thing – is this area open to the public?"

"No," Pete shook his head, "you need to be a permit holder to come through here. And you're at least a couple of miles from the nearest road, and it's a rough trek cross-country."

"Okay," Hathaway nodded, "thank you for your time. If you could just wait here, please…?"

"Sure," Pete nodded, as Hathaway turned away.

He ducked under the police tape, and make his way carefully down the embankment, crossing over to where Inspector Lewis was standing, arms folded, staring down into the ditch at the body. Lewis wore a dark blue scene-suit, and looked uncomfortable in the heat. Because Hathaway was not wearing one, he kept a respectful distance from the scene.

"Sir?" he called out, to attract the Inspector's attention.

Lewis glanced up, waved one hand in acknowledgement; "One moment, sergeant…"

Hathaway watched as Lewis extended his hand down into the ditch. Another hand reached up and clasped his, and Lewis gallantly helped Dr Hobson to climb out of the ditch. She thanked him and smiled, as the two of them crossed over to Hathaway.

"The victim is male, approximately 20 years of age," Hobson reported, without preamble, "we found his wallet, which was empty of cash, but his student ID card says his name is Nigel Handsworth. He died from exsanguinations – he bled to death after his throat was slit."

"Can you tell if he was killed here?" Lewis asked, glancing over his shoulder at the white-suited forensic examiners crawling all over the area.

"It looked like he was," Hobson nodded, "there's plenty of arterial spray on the ground and surrounding foliage, but this ground is bone dry – there are no useful footprints or anything like that."

"What about our killer, any thoughts?"

"Could be anyone, I'm afraid," Hobson shrugged, "it takes no great strength, just a sharp knife, to cut someone's throat. There's no evidence that our victim was restrained – I would say your killer probably approached him from behind, slit his throat, and either he fell or was pushed into the ditch. Your killer might have some traces of blood on their clothes, but otherwise, there probably isn't much evidence to tie them to the scene unless there's any trace evidence on the body. In this dry weather, we've a good chance something was preserved."

"Any indication on time of death?" Lewis queried, "I appreciate the hot weather makes it difficult…"

"I'd say he was killed late last night or early this morning," Hobson supplied, giving Lewis a small smile, "I'd factored in the ambient air temperature and the lack of animal activity around the body. I'd say he was killed at some point between 11 last night and 2 this morning. I might be able to narrow it down more after the autopsy, but there's no guarantee."

"Okay, thanks doctor," Lewis nodded to her, "feel free to move the body as soon as forensics give the go ahead – we don't want to leave him out here any longer than necessary."

Hobson nodded back, turned, and went back to her work. Lewis unzipped the scene-suit and stepped out of it quickly, rolling it up into a ball as he walked back up to the path with Hathaway. The sergeant recounted everything that the ranger had told him, as they strolled along the path in the summer heat.

"We need to speak to this Craig Wilkins," Lewis said, as they walked, "how far is it to his lodge?"

"About two miles," Hathaway replied, "he lives on the edge of the wood, not far from the car park."

"Well, at least we won't be too far from the car," Lewis sighed, swiping a hand across his forehead, "I hate this bloody weather."

"Would you prefer the frozen North, sir?" Hathaway shot back, looking comfortable in the heat.

"Shut it, you," Lewis told him, with a mock-stern tone, "according to the weather reports, the heat should break soon enough."

"And then we can all complain about the rain," Hathaway agreed, "sir, according to the ranger, Pete Davies, only people with a walker's permit can access this part of the woods due to ongoing conservation work in the area, but even permit holders can't come onsite during the night."

"Somehow, I doubt it was a permit holder," Lewis replied, shaking his head slightly, "anyone could park up nearby and get into the woods – it's not as if the security around here is all that tight. The most they'd be done for under normal circumstances is trespass. But, just in case, check to see if our victim was a permit holder."

"Yes, sir," Hathaway acknowledged him; "do you think he came here willingly, then?"

"Between 11 and 2 last night? God knows," Lewis shrugged, "I doubt it, though. And if he did come willingly, I bet he didn't come alone. First, we'll speak to the ranger at the lodge, and then we'll get onto the university. Let's get to know our victim, shall we?"

~*~

As it turned out, the other ranger, Craig Wilkins, had little to add to what they already knew. Wilkins was a bear of a man, at least 6 feet tall, in his early thirties, with long, brown hair and a grizzly beard to match, but he had been genuinely appalled to hear of a body being dumped in the woods.

"Not the first time it's happened, of course," he commented, "and I doubt it will be the last. Damn – the place is going to be swarming with gore-seekers when the news gets out. These people wanting to see where the body was dumped – it's gross, if you ask me."

"Did you hear anything last night?" Lewis asked him, curiously.

"Nothing, I'm afraid," Wilkins shook his head, with a sigh, "to be honest, I slipped in the woods a few days ago and pulled a muscle in my back. I can't afford to take the time off, so I've been sticking to fairly light duties since then. I didn't go out at all last night. Even if I had, I wouldn't go that far into the woods – the place can be lethal at night. Err… no pun intended."

"Of course," Lewis gave him a slight smile, "is there anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts last night?"

"Only that half-empty bottle of Scotch," Wilkins laughed, pointing to the bottle on the table, "Sorry. It's the most effective pain killer, you know?"

Lewis nodded in understanding, as he glanced around the cramped lodge. Wilkins moved with a slow stiffness that was the trademark of a bad back, though Lewis did not rule out the possibility that Wilkins was their killer.

"Thank you, Mr Wilkins," he said, "you'll be here if we have any further questions for you?"

"Sure," Wilkins nodded, "just give me or Pete a shout if there's anything you need."

~*~

Lewis and Hathaway left the lodge and headed back out to their cars. By now, the sun was high in the cloudless sky, and with the complete lack of a breeze, the heat was intense.

"Where to, sir?" Hathaway called, as he slipped on his sunglasses, "the University?"

"Aye," Lewis nodded to him, "I'll see you there…"

They drove in tandem through the heavy traffic, arriving at the porter's lodge half an hour later. One of the porters checked the university records for them, and reported back promptly.

"Nigel Handsworth, did you say?" the elderly porter enquired, politely, "I'm afraid Mr Handsworth is no longer a student here. He dropped out about a month ago of his own accord."

"What was his field of study?" Hathaway asked, interested.

"Psychology," the porter replied, "he studied under Professor Rutledge. Would you like me to direct you to him?"

"Please," Lewis nodded.

The porter led them through the familiar halls and quadrangles of the prestigious college, leading them through various corridors until they came to an office. A secretary glanced up from her typing in surprise.

"Two gentleman to see Professor Rutledge," the porter told her, "They're police."

The porter nodded to them both and ducked out of the room, as the secretary held up a well-manicured finger; "One moment, please."

She picked up the phone and held a muted conversation, before replacing the receiver and pointing to another door; "You can go straight in."

Lewis and Hathaway thanked her, before entering the Professor's office. It looked like any other in the University – stuffed with books and other accoutrements of the academic lifestyle. The Professor was a surprisingly young man, early thirties, blonde, with bright blue eyes and a slightly disdainful expression.

"Can I help you, gentlemen?" he said, in an unmistakeably upper-class Oxford twang, "I will be teaching a class in less than twenty minutes."

"We're interested in a former pupil of yours," Lewis said, noting that they had not been invited to sit, "Nigel Handsworth?"

"A dropout," Rutledge waved his hand dismissively, "his grades were poor and his grasp of the subject amateurish. To be honest, I'd say he jumped before he was pushed. Has he done something worthy of merit, for once?"

"He's been murdered, Professor," Lewis replied, resting his fists on the desk and meeting the academic's gaze evenly, "We found his body in Wytham Woods early this morning. I want to know everything that you can tell me about Nigel Handsworth."

The Professor sighed, and leaned back in his chair, adopting a lecturing tone as he spoke; "Nigel Handsworth, as I've already said, was a dropout. He was a first year Psychology student who spent half his time in the pub, a quarter of his time in bed, and most of the rest of it studiously avoiding my lectures. It was little wonder that he failed his mock exams in January and dropped out at the end of the summer term."

"Did he have any close friends here that you knew of?" Lewis asked, stepping away from the desk, folding his arms as he walked slowly around the office, examining the shelves of books.

"He was fairly close, from what I could tell, to three other students in my Psychology of Action group," Rutledge replied, airily, "the one class he could be depended on to attend with any regularity, I might add."

"Can I have the names of those students, please, Professor?" Lewis asked, keeping his tone polite.

"Susan Harper, Neil Dickinson, and Simon Green," the Professor replied, without hesitation, "though I don't know if you'll find them in Oxford – they may have returned to their home towns for the summer holidays."

"Thank you," Lewis said, "we'll check into that."

He turned to leave, but Hathaway held up his hand, like a school child in class wanting the teachers' attention.

"Just one more thing," the sergeant said, pleasantly, "I'm curious. What was that class about – the Psychology of Action?"

Rutledge relaxed slightly, seemingly pleased with the younger man's apparent interest in his field of academia.

"It is, quite simply, the study of why some people do the things that they do," Rutledge explained, in a studious voice, "it is the study of action and reaction, particularly in the extreme – for example, have you ever accidentally brushed against someone and they have reacted angrily, even violently? We study that phenomenon of human behaviour, along with such other devastating behaviours as murder, suicide, and sadomasochism."

"Okay," Hathaway nodded, "thank you, Professor."

He turned, and followed Lewis out of the study, as the Professor watched them go. When he was sure they were gone, the Professor reached for his phone, and called his personal assistant, who sat outside.

"Jackie? Yes… get me Simon Green on the 'phone, please…"

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

"Do you think this Psychology course Handsworth was doing is relevant to his murder?" Lewis asked, as they left the University College, back to the scorching heat of the day.

"I'm not sure," Hathaway replied, "it was interesting, though. Someone fascinated with murder and violent human behaviour meets a violent end – it could have potential."

"Aye – maybe one of his classmates did it," Lewis sighed, tugging at his tie to loosen it as they approached the porter's lodge, "maybe we'll get lucky and one of them will confess."

"I'll bet you a pint they won't," Hathaway replied, confidently.

They paused by the porter's window, and Hathaway supplied the names of the three students Rutledge had mentioned.

"You're in luck," the porter told them, "all three of them signed up to stay in their digs over the summer. Here's the addresses – all off site, sorry."

"Thanks," Lewis said, taking the slip and scanning it quickly, "come on, sergeant – Susan Harper's the closest, so let's start with her."

They made their way back to the car – on the way to the University, Hathaway had dropped his off at the station, and they now used Lewis's Vauxhall to navigate the city centre, locating the converted house of flats that Susan Harper called home. Lewis knocked on the door of the basement flat. It opened on a security chain, and a wary eye peered out.

"Hello," Lewis said, holding up his badge, "Susan Harper? I'm Inspector Lewis, and this is Sergeant Hathaway, Thames Valley. Can we come in, please?"

The door shut quickly, the chain rattled back, and the door was suddenly flung open to reveal a young woman with short, dark hair, wearing jeans, and a tight red tee-shirt.

"Is this about Nigel Handsworth?" she asked, looking at each of them in turn.

Lewis and Hathaway exchanged a look. This was not what they had expected.

"As a matter of fact, yes it is," Lewis said, frowning slightly, "do you mind if we come in and discuss it?"

"Not much point, really," Susan shrugged, holding out her hands with the wrists pressed together, "you may as well arrest me. I killed him."

~*~

The interview room was wonderfully cool after the baking heat outside. Hathaway brought in three plastic cups of tea, set them down, passing one to Susan and the other to Lewis. Susan had not said a word to them since Hathaway had read her the rights, and they had brought her to the station. Lewis set the tape recorder going, and started the interview.

"Tell us about Nigel Handsworth," he said, "you knew him, is that correct?"

"Yeah, we were mates," Susan replied, not looking up from staring into her cup of tea, "Nigel was a nice guy – more money than sense. He was generous, though – always the first to buy a round in the pub. I liked him."

"We found Nigel's body in Wytham Woods this morning," Lewis told her, "what can you tell us about that?"

"I killed him," Susan said, bluntly, looking up at him for the first time, "Nigel and I had been drinking together. We went out for a drive, and ended up at the woods. We thought it would be a laugh to go for a walk, midnight, in the woods, all spooky, like. We walked for a while, talking, and then Nigel went a bit weird. He said he loved me, he wanted me, and the next thing I knew, he pulled out a knife and tried to rape me. I fought him off, and he suddenly turned, laughing, and said I wasn't worth the effort. In the torchlight I saw the knife. I grabbed it, came up behind him, and slit his throat. He fell down into a ditch. I grabbed the knife and the torch, went back to the car, and dumped it in a layby on the way back from the Woods. It took me nearly three hours to walk back home. End of story."

Lewis exchanged a long look with Hathaway, barely able to comprehend what the girl was telling him so casually.

"We'd like you to submit to a medical and forensic examination, if you don't mind," Lewis said to her, "to check you for any trace evidence."

"I wouldn't bother," Susan shrugged, "I showered the minute I got back, and, like I said, he didn't actually rape me."

"Nonetheless, we'd like a doctor to take a look at you," Lewis replied, "where's the knife?"

"Sorry?" Susan frowned, vaguely.

"The knife you used to kill Nigel Handworth," Lewis prompted her, "where is it?"

"Oh, that," she responded, dismissively, "a friend of mine, Neil, came around to see me this morning after I called him. I gave him the knife and asked him to get rid of it for me. I didn't tell him what I'd done with it. I just said I'd found it."

"Neil Dickinson?" Lewis queried.

"Yes, that's him," she nodded, apparently unsurprised that he knew who she meant, "he's got the knife."

Lewis looked at Hathaway, knowing that they had to get the knife before anything happened to it. He ended the interview, summoning a duty sergeant to take Susan back to the cells and to arrange for her to see a doctor, before he and Hathaway headed back outside into the oppressive heat.

"This can't last much longer," Lewis commented, as they got into the car and he immediately turned on the air conditioning, before pulling out of the car park, "bloody heat makes it hard to think."

"Do you reckon she's telling the truth, sir?" Hathaway asked, as they headed for Neil Dickinson's student house.

"I don't see why not," Lewis replied, "why admit to murder if you didn't do it?"

"She could be covering for someone," Hathaway pointed out, "or out of her mind. Or both."

"We'll see what this Neil Dickinson comes up with," Lewis answered, grimly, "oh, and by the way, don't forget you owe me a pint for the confession… valid or not, it still counts!"

They pulled up outside a three storey house which had been converted into flats. Neil Dickinson occupied the basement flat, and, when Lewis rang the doorbell, the door opened to reveal a young man in ripped jeans, with a black vest shirt on, and spiky blonde hair. He gazed at them blearily, as if he had just woken up.

"Neil Dickinson? This is Inspector Lewis and I'm Sergeant Hathaway," said Hathaway, gesturing in turn, "we're from Thames Valley. May we come in, please?"

"Oh," Neil looked at each of them in turn, "you must be here about the Nigel thing, right?"

Hathaway glanced across at Lewis, with a slight frown.

"What would you know about that, then, Mr Dickinson?" Lewis asked, folding his arms.

Neil shrugged, and copied Lewis's gesture mockingly. He smirked, and rocked back on his heels.

"Why aye, man," he said, in an appalling parody of a Geordie accent, "I killed him, like."

"You what?" Lewis said, disbelievingly.

"I said, 'I killed him'," Dickinson repeated, slowly, "The bastard had it coming. So are you going to arrest me, or what?"

~*~

Dickinson was sitting in the interview room with a cup of tea. Lewis and Hathaway sat the other side of the table. The interview had dragged on for half an hour already – Dickinson alternating between disdainful mockery of the two officers and cheerful co-operation.

"So you and Nigel were in the pub," Lewis said, patiently, "and there was a disagreement over money?"

"Yeah," Neil scowled, "he claimed he'd loaned me five hundred quid, which is bullshit. We got into a fight over it and the landlord chucked us out."

"Which pub was this?"

"The New Inn," Neil replied, "it was about eleven last night, not long before closing."

"So what happened next?"

"I told Nigel I'd had enough of him being a prick all the time," Neil said, slowly, "he was always showing off, flashing the cash, and putting me down in front of people. I'm not rich, you see – not like that bastard. He was taking the piss something chronic last night."

"What did you do?"

"Nigel went to his car and pulled a knife out of the glove box. He was drunk, laughing, waving it at me. I flipped out and went of him. I got the knife and forced him into the boot. I drove the car out to Whytham Woods. I made him get out. We climbed over the barriers. Suddenly he took off. I'd grabbed the torch from the glove box, so I went after him. When I caught up with him, I got really pissed off. I grabbed his hair from behind, slit his throat, and kicked him into a ditch. I'd hoped he'd just stay there and rot."

Lewis glanced across at Hathaway, who was making notes at the interview progressed. Lewis rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.

"Where's the knife and the car now?" Lewis asked.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Neil smirked.

"Where?" Lewis repeated, emphasising the word.

Neil sighed and rolled his eyes; "I dumped the car in a lay-by somewhere on the way back from the Woods. I didn't know what to do with the knife, so I gave it to a mate. I cleaned the blood off and told him it was a present."

"Who's your 'mate'?" Lewis asked.

"Simon Green," Neil replied, with a sudden grin; "you should go and see him. I bet he'd love to talk to you."

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

"A pint says Simon Green confesses to the murder," Lewis said, as they headed to the car park, "at least they both agree on one thing – they dumped the car in a lay-by somewhere near the woods. I don't remember seeing anything – get an APB out on it."

"Doing it now, sir," Hathaway said, pulling out his mobile 'phone, "do you think they're covering for each other?"

"Seems like it," Lewis responded, "they both got the details spot on – maybe they were both there? Instead of denying it, they both confess – if we can't prove which one it was that slit his throat, the most we can get them on is a shaky theory of conspiracy to commit murder."

They got into the car, which was like an oven after stewing in the day's heat. It was late in the afternoon, oppressively hot, the air heavy. Lewis drove slowly though the traffic, the air conditioning on full blast. Hathaway leaned back in his seat, playing with his phone.

"So you think Green is going to confess as well?" he said, finally putting the phone away.

"I think it's no coincidence that he was the only other person Professor Rutledge pointed out as being close to Handsworth."

"Maybe all three of them did it," Hathaway said.

"Maybe just one of them did it, and the other two agreed to cover for them," Lewis sighed, "let's see what Green's got to say for himself."

They pulled up next to a student house, and a woman answered the door. Lewis introduced them both to her, and she let them in.

"Si!" she called, "Simon! Police are here to see you…"

Another door opened, and a blonde, young man in black jeans and a blue shift emerged.

"Oh, hello," he said, "come on in…"

Lewis and Hathaway found themselves in a modern-looking living room, with a laminate floor and black leather sofas. Simon Green dropped heavily onto one of the sofas, and gave them a knowing smile.

"I take it you know why we're here," Lewis said, quietly.

Simon gave a single, long, slow nod; "Nigel Handsworth."

"Do you know Susan Harper and Neil Dickinson?" Lewis asked him.

"Yes," Simon replied, simply, "I thought you were here to talk about Nigel?"

Lewis knew what was coming, as he said; "We found his body early this morning. He's been murdered."

"His throat was slit and he was pushed into ditch," Simon nodded, "yes, I know – I killed him."

"I had a feeling you were going to say that," Lewis said, dryly, "if you'll come with us, please…?"

~*~

"Have you ever known anything like it?"

Hathaway hid a half-smile – he had noticed that whenever Lewis was angry or frustrated, his accent became more pronounced.

"All three of them have willingly confessed, under caution and on tape," Hathaway pointed out, "we just need to work out which one of them it actually was."

"And to do that we need the knife and the car," Lewis sighed, "Something doesn't add up, though. Susan claims she killed him because he tried to rape her. Neil says he killed him because of a drunken argument, and Simon says he took him out to the woods and killed him after being bullied by him."

"We've heard worse motives than any of those," Hathaway pointed out.

"Yes," Lewis agreed, "but… I'm having trouble believing any of them."

Hathaway was saved from having to formulate a response by the ringing of Lewis's phone. The older man answered it, and then grabbed his car keys from the corner of his desk.

"Come on," Lewis jerked his head towards the door, "Dr Hobson says she's got something for us."

Moving through the afternoon heat was like swimming in soup. Traffic was at a standstill in most areas of the city, and the air-con did little to relieve the oven-like atmosphere in the car. Eventually, they arrived at the hospital, and made their way down to the pathology labs. Here, it was always cool, and Lewis found himself savouring the chilly atmosphere. They walked familiar corridors until they found Dr. Hobson in her laboratory. She let them in through the security sealed doors, smiling as she did so.

"You both look shattered," she said, cheerfully, "is it still boiling out there?"

"You could fry an egg on the bonnet of my car," Lewis replied.

"You'd have to wash it first," Hobson shot back, as she crossed over to the storage drawers, "right, your victim, Nigel."

She tugged on a drawer, and pulled out the gurney. Lewis and Hathaway stood on one side as she stood on the other and pulled back the sheet that covered the earthly remains of Nigel Handsworth.

"He was killed by a single slash wound to the throat through the jugular vein and numerous arteries, as well as partially severing the trachea," she reported, indicating the wound with one finger, "from the depth of the cut, the killer needn't have been particularly strong, but the knife was sharp. Direction of the cut says that your killer stood behind the victim and slashed the knife from left to right, meaning your killer is right-handed. Any luck tracing a suspect yet?"

"You'll never believe this, doctor, but we've got three separate confessions," Lewis sighed, "is there anything else you can tell us?"

"Lots more," Hobson nodded, "he'd been drinking quite heavily before he died, and I found traces of marijuana in his coat pockets. The autopsy showed something else, as well – your victim had a brain tumour that would have killed him in the next few months in any case."

"What?" Lewis glanced down at the body, "None of his friends have mentioned this. Was he even aware if it?"

"Undoubtedly, though he might not have told his friends," Hobson shrugged, "anyway – there's no sign of a struggle – it seems that he was taken by surprise. There was nothing else that stood out to me, except this…"

She reached down and picked up the right hand of the victim, turning the wrist towards Lewis and Hathaway, showing them the livid scars across the wrist.

"I'd say your victim had previously tried to kill himself."

~*~

The drive back to the office was done in relative silence, and they arrived back at the station, sitting in the oppressive humidity of their office. Lewis sat down heavily behind his desk, and Hathaway copied his example, dropping into his own chair.

"I need a drink," Lewis said, quietly, at last.

"Agreed," Hathaway grunted.

They made no move for some time, until Hathaway's phone rang. He answered it as if it were a great effort to do so. The call lasted only a few seconds.

"Traffic have found Handsworth's car," he reported, replacing the phone in his pocket, "the knife was in the glove box. Both the car and the knife are with forensics."

"Susan claimed she killed Nigel and then gave the knife to Neil," Lewis recalled, leaning back in his chair as he took his tie off and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his short-sleeved shirt, "Neil takes the blame and says he gave it to Simon, and Simon confessed and said he gave the knife to Susan."

"It's all a bit contrived, isn't it?" Hathaway said, also taking the opportunity to loosen his tie in a concession to the heat, "Do you think they're covering for each other?"

"They must be," Lewis nodded, "they've all got plausible stories… but for each other's confessions. Normally you'd expect a contrived alibi, not a contrived confession, but…"

"But?" prompted Hathaway, when Lewis trailed off.

Lewis shrugged; "I want to talk to them again."

Hathaway followed Lewis down to the interview rooms, calling ahead, making sure the confessors were brought up from the cells and placed in separate interview rooms.

"You talk to Susan," Lewis said, as they paused outside the interview rooms, "I'll talk to Neil. We'll let Simon stew for a while."

"Aye sir," Hathaway tightened his tie, buttoned his collar, nodded smartly, and ducked into the interview room.

Susan looked up at him, her face carefully neutral. She folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. Hathaway sat down, and met her gaze evenly.

"You didn't kill Nigel Handsworth," Hathaway said, bluntly.

Susan continued to gaze at him, calmly, her expression a fixed mask of neutrality. Hathaway leaned forwards and laced his fingers together on the table top.

"We've recovered the car and the knife," he said, slowly, "do you want to tell me what really happened that evening?"

There was still no response, as Susan remained tight-lipped. Hathaway switched tactics.

"Who are you protecting? Neil? Simon? Professor Rutledge?"

Now _that_ got a response.

~*~

Lewis was having trouble suppressing a smirk of amusement.

"She slapped you?"

"Open palm, right across the face," Hathaway grimaced, gingerly probing the red mark on his face with his fingers, "it was the mention of Professor Rutledge that did it, I'm sure."

"I tried the same thing with Neil, and then Simon," Lewis told him, with a sigh, "Neil called me a number of choice names and told me where to go. Simon just looked bloody scared."

"So we lean on Simon, then?"

"In the morning," Lewis replied, tiredly, "come on, it's getting late."

They left the offices and headed towards their cars, Hathaway still massaging his face.

"Are you alright?" Lewis asked him, still amused.

"My pride is ruined and my face is sore," Hathaway declared, "with all due respect, sir, I think I'm due a pint."

"That's the most sensible thing you've said so far, sergeant," Lewis smiled, "maybe she knocked some sense into you…"

~*~


	4. Chapter 4

The night was humid and stifling, and brought no relief from the heat. Eventually, morning came to find Lewis and Hathaway standing in Chief Superintendent Innocent's office, both wearing carefully neutral expressions.

"What are you going to do about it, Lewis?" Innocent was asking, irritated, "We can't keep them here indefinitely – you've got to charge them or let them go."

"We might have to apply for an extension of time," Lewis replied, patiently, "ma'am, all three of them have confessed and at the moment we've got no evidence to distinguish which one of them it was."

"If there's no evidence you'll have to let them go," Innocent told him, stiffly, "where are you with the knife and the car?"

"The forensics report should arrive today," Hathaway supplied, succinctly.

"Chase it up," Innocent said, pointing at him, "and as for you…"

She turned on Lewis, and snapped; "Do some of that thinking you enjoy so much and figure out which one of them is the killer before the press gets hold of this!"

"Yes ma'am," Lewis nodded, nudged Hathaway, and they both left the office, Innocent glaring after them.

They sought sanctuary in their office. Hathaway was relieved to find an envelope on his desk containing the forensics report. He picked it up and tore it open, pulling out the file and dropping the envelope into his recycling bin. He speed-read the report and handed it wordlessly to Lewis, who took twice as long to read it and then leaned back in his chair, with a frustrated sigh.

"There are prints from all three of them on the knife," he noted, "All right handed. Same for the car steering wheel… no overlap on the knife but there is on the car… looks like Neil was the last one to drive it. There's a fourth set of unknowns…"

"Nigel's were ruled out immediately," Hathaway nodded, "we may have a fourth suspect."

"Innocent's going to love that," Lewis sighed, "and according to this report, all of their clothes show that they were in the woods, soil samples confirm it. None of them got blood on themselves, though. Have you got Handworth's medical reports in yet?"

"Not yet," Hathaway shook his head, "they should arrive tomorrow."

"Good," Lewis responded, dropping the report on his desk, "Come on. Let's speak to Neil again…he was the last to drive the car."

Neil glared at them. He had been in custody for over 24 hours, his hair and clothes were rumpled, and he looked tired. There was still a bright spark in his eye and a confident air of defiance about him. He remained silent as Lewis and Hathaway sat down opposite to him, and Hathaway started the tape recorder. After giving the preliminary information about the time, date and those present, Hathaway leaned on the table and met Neil's stare.

"Nigel had a brain tumour," he said, bluntly, "were you aware of that?"

"Of course," Neil replied, flatly, "I figure I put him out of his misery."

"Misery? He was depressed?"

"Wouldn't you be with a lump in your head?" Neil shot back, "Although in your case, I think that's what passes for brains…"

"Was Nigel Handsworth suicidal?" Lewis asked, as Hathaway bit back a sharp retort to the insult.

Neil hesitated, and Lewis noted it with interest. It was the first time he had not come back at them with a mimicry, witticism or insult.

"You know he tried to kill himself," Neil said, eventually, "so you know the answer to that question."

"Did you enter into an agreement to kill him and cover for each other?" Hathaway asked, curiously, "He failed to take his own life so he got one of you to do it for him, and convinced you that you'd avoid jail if you all confessed."

"Oh, I like it! A big conspiracy theory!" Neil grinned, "You're in the wrong job. You should be writing cheap novels, hack."

Lewis rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, and changed tack.

"Tell me about Professor Rutledge."

Neil's expression changed from one of amusement to fury. He slammed his hands down on the table and launched himself to his feet, his chair falling over backwards as Lewis and Hathaway both leapt to their feet defensively.

"Don't mention that bastard's name to me!"

~*~

"Of course Nigel was depressed," Simon was saying, as he leaned back in his chair, "he tried to kill himself once, while he was at school. He was always going on about how he wanted to die, because he was going to anyway and it was better to get it over with."

"So you decided to help him out?" Lewis suggested, "You killed him, and persuaded your friends to confess as well, so none of you would be pinned down to it."

"What a marvellous idea," Simon smiled, "I really must remember that for the next time I decide to kill someone."

"You didn't kill Nigel Handsworth," Lewis said, dismissively, "we tested your clothes. You were in the woods, all right, but you didn't use the knife. You just held it. There's no trace of blood on you anywhere."

"I slit his throat from behind," Simon said, emphasising his words, "the blood sprayed away from me."

"We'd still expect to see some spattering," Lewis said, reasonably, "especially some cast-off from the knife as you supposedly pulled it back and pushed the body forwards."

Simon hesitated. Lewis did not look across at Hathaway, but he knew what the younger man was thinking – the cracks were beginning to show in all of their confessors. Despite being the last brought in and the most confident to begin with, Simon seemed to have been the most shaken by his experience in the cells, and Lewis had been interviewing him for nearly an hour.

"You didn't kill him, did you?" Lewis said, matter-of-factly, "Who was it who slit his throat? Neil? Susan? Or someone else?"

"I…I killed him," Simon replied, sounding less sure of himself, "he deserved it…"

"Your story doesn't stand up," Lewis told him, bluntly, "you told us before that after you killed him you dumped the car, but forensics have showed you weren't the last to drive it. Who killed Nigel?"

Simon sighed, and stared at the table top.

"Susan did it," he said, quietly, "Susan slit his throat while Neil and I watched…"

"Why?" Lewis asked, leaning forwards, "Why did she kill him?"

"You'll have to ask her that," Simon replied, suddenly looking confident again as he leaned back and folded his arms, "I'm not answering any more questions."

~*~

"I'm sick of telling you I killed him," Susan scowled, "are you going to charge me? If not you'll have to let me go."

"Your story doesn't add up with the forensics," Lewis replied, calmly, "you weren't the last one to drive the car. And one of your friends has already changed his story – we've got one less confession. Your little conspiracy plot is rapidly falling apart, Susan – so you'd better start telling the truth."

"What?" Susan looked up at him, alarmed, "Who…?"

She cut herself off and waved a hand with a bitter laugh; "I see what you're trying to do, Inspector. You're lying to me."

"Why would I do that? You've already confessed. If I talk to the third person in your little group and he revokes his confession as well, you'll take the rap for everyone."

A brief flicker of worry crossed Susan's young face, before her expression hardened again; "You've already said that the forensics don't add up."

"So you're admitting you didn't kill him?"

"I… of course I killed him, he tried to rape me!"

"While Simon and Neil stood by watching?" Lewis raised his eyebrows slightly, "We know all three of you were in the forest. Are you going to tell me what actually happened, or are you going to spend years in jail for murder?"

Susan glared at him, silently, for a long moment. Then she glared at Hathaway, then the wall, door, and the table. Finally, she gave a shuddering sigh and dropped back in the chair.

"Fine," she said, with a gesture of submission, "We were all there, the four of us. We'd gone to the woods – we were pretty drunk, except for Simon, who drove us there."

"Why did you go out there?"

"It was Nigel's idea," Susan said, vaguely, "anyway, we got there, and Nigel had a knife and a torch in the glove box of the car. He said the knife was for protection in case there were tramps in the wood. We just laughed about it. Anyway, we walked for ages, still drinking – Neil and Nigel got into a fight, Neil grabbed the knife, and cut Nigel's throat. We all agreed to take the rap so Neil wouldn't get prosecuted."

"What about Nigel – his friends and family?"

"He didn't have any family," Susan shrugged, "he was a rich kid orphaned at 18 – didn't need a guardian, no other relatives to speak of. And we were the closest thing he had to friends. He had a brain tumour, you know – everyone felt sorry for him, but we didn't like him much. He was a bit… you know, weird."

Lewis tried not to let his disgust show in his voice, as he said; "You've been wasting our time all along. Why should I believe you now?"

"Simon will back me up," Susan said, defensively.

"Simon tells a somewhat different story," Hathaway told her, mildly.

"Let's go and see what Neil has to say," Lewis said, standing up, "have her taken back to the cells while I try to decide whether to charge her with wasting police time."

~*~

The most sensible thing Lewis could think to do was to walk to the nearest pub. He got the drinks in, before he and Hathaway found a shady corner of the beer garden and tried to escape the heat of the day, dressed as they were in suit trousers and short sleeved shirts, with ties loosened in deference to the summer weather.

"I don't believe it," Lewis said, at last, after taking a long drink, "now all three of them deny it – Simon blames Susan, Susan blames Neil, and Neil, of course, blames Simon. Forensics says any one of them could have done it, and all three were definitely present, along with Nigel."

"And possibly a fifth person," Hathaway reminded him, "the set of unknowns on the steering wheel of the car. A partial print lifted from beneath one of the others – peripheral smudging suggests that the wheel was hastily wiped down before our three suspects and their victim used the car."

"We need to figure out who that fifth person is," Lewis said, "does anyone spring to mind?"

"Well, our database has ruled out forensic error or a print from a careless investigator not wearing gloves," Hathaway shrugged, "what about Professor Rutledge? He clearly didn't think much of Nigel."

"Skipping class isn't much of a motive for murder," Lewis pointed out, "Still, for the sake of completeness – get someone over to his office to get his prints. I'm in no hurry to speak to him again. Anyone else?"

Hathaway paused, thinking, and then shook his head. They drank in silence for a few minutes, each lost in though in the humidity of the afternoon. Lewis fingered his collar and hoped that the heat wave would break soon.

"Look into Handsworth's financial affairs," he said, at last, "Susan mentioned that he was rich and orphaned at 18. Find out what happened to his parents, and whether he did have any family his so-called 'friends' didn't know about. Follow the money – find out who stood to benefit from his death."

"He was a bit young to have a Will, sir," Hathaway pointed out.

"There are still rules on who inherits where there is no Will," Lewis told him, "find out. He knew he was dying from a brain tumour – he might have made provision for that."

~*~

Lewis recalled a time where it would have taken days to pull together all of the financial and personal information he had requested about their victim. Hathaway had it within a couple of hours, thanks to the computer.

"Susan was right," Hathaway reported, as he stared at the screen, with a slight frown of concentration, "Handsworth's closest relatives are a couple of distant cousins and a great-aunt in New Zealand. I've contacted the local police to ask them to notify the family of his death."

"Good," Lewis nodded, "what about finances?"

"That's where it gets interesting," Hathaway said, "Handsworth's parents were killed in a car crash two years ago. His father was a barrister and his mother was a private psychologist. They left him a house in Devon and a personal fortune of about £1.2 million. He spent a year travelling around the world before deciding to follow in his mother's footsteps by doing a degree at Oxford. He started out well, but after being diagnosed with the brain tumour, he went off the rails. The tumour was inoperable – he tried to commit suicide shortly after the diagnosis."

"What was the prognosis?"

"Not good – he had maybe six months to a year," Hathaway responded, clicking through the medical records, "the doctors thought he'd spend the last few months in a coma in hospital."

"Poor kid," Lewis winced, "come on – I can tell there's more."

"The day before he died, Handsworth withdrew thirty thousand pounds in cash from his various bank accounts," Hathaway told him, with a slight smile, "I've already called up the financial records on our three suspects – each of them made significant deposits into their accounts yesterday morning before we picked them up – five thousand pounds each."

"So what was he paying them for, and what happened to the other fifteen grand?" Lewis wondered, "Anything else?"

"Not much," Hathaway replied, tapping a few keys and clicking through the information, "Handsworth didn't leave a Will so his money will be divided between the great aunt and his cousins – they don't seem to have ever had any contact with him. I doubt they're even aware of his existence."

"We need to find out why Handsworth would have so generously given his 'friends' five thousand pounds each before he died," Lewis sighed, "which one shall we talk to first? I picked last time."

"Neil," Hathaway supplied, immediately, deadpan, "he needs more practice at your accent."

Lewis's glare said it all.

~*~


	5. Chapter 5

"Oh, it's you again," Neil commented, as Lewis and Hathaway entered the interview room, having telephoned in advance for him to be brought up from the cells, "have you come to let me go? I assume Simon's confessed to the murder."

"None of your stories match and you know it," Lewis responded, once Hathaway had set up the tape recorder, "now. Tell me why Nigel Handsworth paid you five thousand pounds the day before he died."

"It was my birthday," Neil sneered, "he gave me a present."

"That's a very generous present from someone you didn't like," Hathaway said, dryly, "if that's the case, why did he give the same amount to Simon and Susan?"

"Because he didn't want them to feel left out," Neil shot back, "Why do you care? He was rich and dying. Why not treat your friends to some cash?"

"That's still a lot of money," Lewis responded, "what was he paying you for?"

Neil smirked; "Would you believe me if I said 'services rendered'?"

"You may think this is funny, Mr Dickinson," Lewis sighed, tiredly, "but you and your friends could be in serious trouble."

"You haven't charged us with anything and you're rapidly approaching your thirty-six hour deadline," Neil smiled, "so far you've got no evidence to hold against us. I fail to see how we're in any trouble."

"I can put all three of you at the crime scene," Lewis replied, a hard edge in his voice, "I can prove that each of you held the murder weapon. I can prove that each of you drove the car that night. I know that if you didn't kill Nigel Handsworth, you were a witness to his murder. If you and your friends don't start giving me some straight answers soon, I'll have the lot of you for wasting police time, withholding information and obstructing an enquiry. I will make your life very difficult, Mr Dickinson, and I doubt that it would do your degree and your employment prospects much good if you had a criminal record."

Neil glanced at Hathaway as if to check the voracity of the statement, and the sergeant simply stared back, coldly.

"The… the five thousand pounds…" Neil waved one hand, not looking at either of them as he spoke, "was from Nigel. He… he paid us to watch."

"Watch what?"

Neil finally looked up; "He paid us to watch him commit suicide."

~*~

"No," Dr. Hobson said, firmly, "it's not possible."

"Are you sure?"

"Lewis!"

"Sorry," the Inspector held his hands up, apologetically, "but – I've got to know. Are you sure?"

"Certain," Hobson replied, "the angle, depth and length of the cut indicate that his throat was cut from someone standing behind him. In all likelihood he was dead before the cut was finished – he wouldn't have been able to cut that far across him self; he'd have dropped the knife half-way across."

Lewis tried to hide his frustration with a sigh; "we've finally got a straight answer from all three of them that matches, and it still isn't supported by the evidence. What are we going to do?"

"Try avoiding Chief Super Innocent?" Hobson suggested.

Lewis managed a small smile; "I'll keep that in mind."

"So what are we going to do?" Hathaway asked, as they left the pathology labs, "We can't hold them for much longer."

"We'll release them," Lewis replied, grimly, "and then we'll keep an eye on them. We need to find out what happened to the fifteen thousand pounds… But first, we need to speak to Professor Rutledge."

Hathaway climbed into the passenger seat and immediately wound the window down. A haze of heat made the car park seem more like an arid desert.

"Apparently it's hotter here than in Majorca," he commented.

"Here's hoping it's over soon," Lewis replied, as he put the car in gear and reversed out of the parking space, "this heat's a killer."

They drove slowly to the College, where they reluctantly pulled on their suit jackets and tightened their ties – Chief Superintendent Innocent always insisted that the CID officers be smartly presented when interviewing the public. Lewis failed to see how wilting in a suit in high summer could give a good impression. They found the Professor's study from memory, and, seeing that his secretary was not around, they simply walked straight in. They found the Professor with a student, a woman, who seemed to be doing her best not to cry. She looked horrified when they walked in, and stared at them both wide eyed.

"We'll continue this later, Jenny," Rutledge said, in a quiet voice, "Go back to your dorm and think about what I've told you."

"Problem?" Lewis asked, after the student had gone.

"She's failing the course," Rutledge replied, taking a seat behind his desk, "and I've just told her so. She fails to grasp even the simplest concepts of agent and patient behaviour of suicide-related theory."

"Which is…?" Hathaway prompted him, interested.

"Beyond your understanding," Rutledge replied, arrogantly, "please – I'm very busy, and only yesterday I had to put up with two of your forensics people taking my fingerprints. Is this more about Nigel Handsworth? I know you've arrested Simon Green, as well as Susan Harper and Neil Dickinson."

"Was Nigel Hansdworth suicidal?" Lewis asked, bluntly.

Rutledge paused to consider the question.

"Emotionally he was often depressed," he replied, thoughtfully, "about his parents and his medical condition. Cognitively, he had no trouble processing information and expressing himself coherently. He had a rational approach to death and claimed to be prepared for it. Death was a very real concept to Nigel, unlike his fellow classmates. However, unfortunately, he decided that everything was pointless, given his own impending demise. He was motivationally challenged with his studies and preferred fast cars, strong drink and loose women, from what I hear. Somatically, he was a wreck – he ate well, but he ravaged himself with drink and drugs. I would say yes – he was suicidal, but he lacked the capacity to take his own life. He was a victim of circumstance – he chose a destructive lifestyle, but could never bring himself to bring about his own death by direct means."

Lewis listened, nodded in all the right places, and hoped that Hathaway had understood what the man was talking about. He understood the gist of it, but…

"Did Nigel ever give you any money?" he asked, suddenly.

"Goodness me, no," Rutledge laughed, "he couldn't stand me. None of my students can. I deliberately make their lives very tough, Inspector. They come to my classes because if they didn't they would fail their degrees. I teach them valuable lessons in surviving in a harsh world – how can they counsel a suicidal or masochistic patient if they flinch at the thought of self-harm?"

"How do your students react to you?" Lewis asked, recalling the anger Susan, Neil and Simon had all displayed at the mention of Rutledge's name.

"Usually with hate," Rutledge smiled, "I have conditioned them, in a way – they challenge me frequently in class, and in doing so, they challenge themselves. Simon Green and Susan Harper are, in particular, promising students. Simon has excellent emotional control. Susan is far more volatile – but she's got good potential for learning."

"What about Neil Dickinson?"

"A reprobate," Rutledge replied, contemptuously, "when challenged, either emotionally, cognitively or physically, he resorts to mockery and sarcasm – the lowest form of response, in my opinion. He will not amount to much. I would not be surprised if he drops out in favour of a softer subject."

"Where were you on the night Nigel Handsworth was murdered?" Lewis asked, changing tack again.

"I was here, at a college dinner," Rutledge answered, apparently unfazed by the sudden question, "my secretary has the day off, but you can check her calendar, if you wish. It's on her desk."

"We will, thank you," Hathaway said, "if I may, sir – would you believe any of your students to be capable of murder?"

"I believe that we are all capable of it, depending on our circumstances," Rutledge told him, "though it depends on your definition of 'murder'. A self-defence killing? Assisted suicide? Do you define these as murder?"

Hathaway opened his mouth to speak, but Lewis was quicker.

"Don't get him started," the Inspector interrupted, before the academic debate could start, "I have one more question, Professor. Despite his academic performance, how would you rate Nigel's intelligence?"

"Fairly average," Rutledge shrugged, and then, as if he could not help himself, he added, "probably higher than the average police officer's, though."

Lewis managed a polite smile, as if the dig had been a joke, and nodded to the Professor; "Thank you, sir. You've been most helpful."

~*~

"Arrogant bastard," Lewis said, matter-of-factly, when they were safely back in the car.

They had spent some time at the college, and had confirmed that Rutledge had been at the college dinner until very early in the morning, and his alibi for the murder was unshakeable.

"Yes," Hathaway agreed, readily, "but he might have given us something there…"

Lewis gave the sergeant an appraising look.

"If it was amongst that psychological jargon, I missed it," he admitted, "what did I not hear?"

"When the Professor was talking about the definition of murder, he mentioned assisted suicide," Hathaway reminded him, "now that's illegal in this country… but what if Handsworth paid someone to kill him?"

Lewis considered this for a moment.

"That would explain a lot," he agreed, at last, "particularly with regard to where the fifteen thousand pounds had gone… how many people wouldn't kill someone for fifteen thousand pounds? Especially if the victim was the one paying…"

"I wouldn't," Hathaway said.

"Aye, but you're just weird," Lewis replied, with a quick grin, "Seriously, though – that makes things harder. Our suspect could be a complete stranger to Handsworth. A bloke he met in the pub, for example, or even someone professionally hired."

"How many hit-men can there be in Oxfordshire?" Hathaway quipped, dryly.

"Nigel was fairly smart," Lewis was saying, as he started the car, "he could easily have arranged something… it couldn't have been that difficult…"

"Where do we start?" Hathaway asked, "Interview the three stooges again?"

Lewis winced at the thought; "No. We'll let them go. But we'll keep tabs on them for a little while – set up some low key surveillance on each of them."

"Yes, sir," Hathaway nodded, "and…?"

"And we get out of this bloody heat, sergeant."

~*~

Lewis had put up with self-righteousness from Susan, suspicion from Simon and derision from Neil as he released each one with the same caution not to leave Oxford without informing the police and to stay where they could easily be contacted. He also arranged to have each one discreetly followed, which Innocent had finally agreed to, despite the fact that she considered it to be a waste of resources.

"You told me you don't think it was any of them," she had pointed out, "why are you following them now?"

"Because they definitely saw the killing and they know who did it," Lewis had replied, "and now they're scared that we're going to ruin their glorious academic records by prosecuting them for wasting police time, obstructing enquiries and a number of other minor offences – I've threatened Susan with a charge of assaulting a police officer for slapping Sergeant Hathaway…"

"Then why let them go?" Innocent had challenged him.

"Because they'll meet up," Lewis had replied, confidently, "they'll talk. And they might give away more than they bargained for…"

Now, he was sitting outside a pub, in his car, in the dark. It was humid, and he had the windows wound down, but it made little difference. Hathaway was dozing in the passenger seat. They could not go into the pub as their suspects would instantly recognise them – instead, they sat outside, sweating in the heat, while the suspects were inside, unwittingly in the company of two other Thames Valley officers in plain clothes, both of whom wore wires, which recorded everything they said and transmitted it to Lewis's car radio.

"They've just ordered another round of drinks," murmured a low, female voice, against the background hum of the pub, "they're getting pretty merry – we're not close enough for the mikes to pick it up but it sounds like they're toasting to Nigel Handsworth…"

"They're splashing the cash around a bit," said a soft, male voice, "very well off, for students…"

Lewis tuned out the idle chatter, as he watched the entrance to the pub. He and Hathaway were parked far enough away not to arouse suspicion, but it made it hard to see the faces of people as they came in and out of the pub.

"Hang on," there was a note of interest and urgency in the male voice, "Susan's having a bit of a barney with an older bloke at the bar – I can't hear what she's saying, but… oh, well – he seems to be leaving."

Lewis nudged Hathaway awake, and the younger man sat up quickly, as he hid a yawn and stretched.

"Watch the door," Lewis told him, in a low voice, "Susan's just had an argument with a bloke at the bar…"

Sure enough, the door opened, and a tall figure stepped out. He paused in the lights, and lit a cigarette, before he began walking towards the car park opposite. Lewis and Hathaway both held their breath and sat incredibly still, as the man climbed into a battered four-by-four, and revved the engine noisily.

"Was that…?" Hathaway began, uncertainly.

"Craig Wilkins, the ranger from the woods," Lewis nodded, grimly, "Bad back be buggered – let's see where he goes…send the signal to Hogan and Michaels that we're going."

"Yes sir," Hathaway said, picking up the radio to communicate to the officers in the pub via their ear-pieces, "what about the other three?"

"Tell them to stick close," Lewis ordered, "find out what they can and if needs be detain them again. If Susan recognised Wilkins, I want to know how – he claimed he'd never left his hut that night!"

~*~


	6. Chapter 6

They followed the four-by-four out of the city, and out towards Wytham Woods, dropping further and further behind as they tried to follow the Land Rover discreetly. Eventually, it pulled into the dirt track that led to Wilkins's lodge, and Lewis deliberately drove passed before reversing and following slowly down the track. They came to the end, and found the truck parked with the lights on in the lodge. Lewis glanced at his watch – it was about half-past ten, and really too late to be reasonably making polite enquiries… still, if Wilkins was their man… he made his decision, turned off the engine, and grabbed his torch from the glove box.

"Come on," he said, "let's take a look around."

Flicking the torch on, he illuminated the path in front of them. They walked slowly, but could not prevent the crunch of gravel underfoot as they made their way towards the lodge. The air was hot, heavy and humid, despite the darkness, and Lewis glanced up at the sky. It was clouding over quickly, promising the much-anticipated relief from the heat, heavy clouds drifting in and blotting out the stars and the moon, casting further darkness over the inky-black woodland.

Lewis approached lodge, went up the steps, and knocked on the door, firmly. The sound was loud in the darkness, but there was no noise from within, and no indication that the summons would be answered. Lewis knocked again. Somewhere nearby, a tawny owl hooted in the dark. Lewis frowned, as the back of his neck began to tingle. Something was not right... Hathaway, standing just behind him and to his right, seemed to sense it as well, as they traded a glance. Lewis raised his fist to knock once more, when there was a noise behind him. He turned, just in time to see a dark blur of moment. Hathaway gave a muffled grunt of pain, and crashed into him.

"James!"

Lewis grabbed the sergeant as he fell, catching him before he could hit the ground. On his knees, Lewis cradled the unconscious Hathaway, shocked, as he laid him carefully on the floor. He stared, dumbly, at his fingers, as he took his hand away from the back of the younger man's head, and found they were wet with blood.

"Get up," said a rough voice from somewhere above him, as a light shone into his eyes.

"Wilkins?"

Lewis shielded his eyes as he stood, tightening his grip on his own torch. The light flicked downwards slightly, and Lewis saw the shotgun that was levelled at him; and, despite the heat of the night, his entire body went cold.

"Pick him up," growled Wilkins, gesturing with the shotgun.

With a sick feeling, Lewis reached down, and, grasping Hathaway's wrists; pulled him upright and slung him over his shoulder as carefully as he could. He straightened up, and felt the nudge of the cold gun barrel in his lower back.

"Start walking."

With the torch still in his right hand, Lewis began to walk. His mind was racing – for as long as Wilkins had the gun, and with Hathaway out cold, there was nothing he could do. Unbidden, a memory arose in his mind, of walking through these same woods, many years ago, a dead weight slung over his shoulder, and a crazy woman who had made him dig his own grave… he shook off the thoughts and tried to concentrate on the present. The atmosphere was thickening, and exertion made Lewis's shirt stick to his back.

"Hathaway?" he hissed, as he trudged on into the woods, "James, please wake up!"

"Stop talking!" Wilkins snapped at him.

"Why are you doing this, Wilkins?" Lewis called back to him, breathlessly, "Nigel Handsworth paid you to kill him, didn't he?"

His question was met with silence, so he decided to try another; "Why did he pay his friends to watch?"

There was a grunt of a laugh from behind him.

"To make sure I did the job properly," he replied, "and to show them the reality of their studies. He told them it was all very well reading it in a book, but they should see it for real…"

Wilkins gave a derisive snort of a laugh, and nudged Lewis in the ribs with the gun.

"I'm all packed – going to Australia," he said, "I'm going to lose myself in the outback."

"Why, man?" Lewis asked, as he concentrated on the rough path, "Why did you kill him?"

"Because he asked me to, and he paid me," Wilkins replied, simply, "he paid his mates to take the blame long enough for me to get out of the country. I'd hoped I might get lucky and you'd finger one of them for it anyway."

"But when you saw Susan in the bar, you thought they'd grassed on you," Lewis guessed, as he walked, his back and shoulders beginning to ache with the exertion of carrying Hathaway, "you argued with her…?"

"She thought I'd have left by now – and I would have if my flight hadn't been cancelled – there's a storm forecast for tonight," Wilkins told him, "so shut up and keep walking."

The darkness was almost impenetrable – Lewis could barely see three steps ahead, despite the torch he still carried in his right hand. Wilkins had a much more powerful torch, and the ever-present shotgun never wavered from its aim on Lewis's back. To Lewis, it felt like they walked for hours in the humid darkness. He flinched slightly every time he stumbled, or heard the noise of an animal in the woods, acutely aware that Wilkins could just shoot him in the back at any time. He was concerned for Hathaway – Wilkins had obviously hit him hard, and the younger man had not stirred since they had started walking.

Suddenly, in the darkness, Lewis caught his foot in a pothole, and with a surprised yelp, he tumbled sideways off the path. He felt Hathaway slip from his shoulder, crashing into the undergrowth somewhere. Lewis, on his knees, moved to find the sergeant, but Wilkins's booted foot crashed into his ribs, sending him sprawling. Groaning, winded, Lewis rolled onto his back, raising a hand to protect his eyes from the sudden brightness of the light that shone in his face. The barrel of the shotgun pressed up against his throat, hard, cold against his skin. Lewis closed his eyes, unable to swallow, holding his breath. Above him, he could hear Wilkins breathing heavily, and around him, the trees stirred and rustled in the growing breeze. The air was hot, humid and close. A trickle of sweat ran down Lewis's temple and he resisted the urge to scratch it away.

"Get up," Wilkins said, his voice low and hard.

Lewis raised himself up onto his elbows, and then awkwardly climbed to his feet, glancing warily at the barrel of the shotgun aimed at his chest.

"Get walking," Wilkins gestured with the gun, towards the trees behind Lewis.

"No," Lewis replied, bluntly, shaking his head, "no further."

Wilkins growled at him, wordlessly. Lewis forced himself to breathe evenly as he stared at the ranger. He was not entirely convinced that this man was willing to kill them both. A rich, dying suicidal who had paid him to, maybe, but this would be cold-blooded murder…

"Manslaughter," Lewis managed to say, taking a deep breath, "we could charge you with manslaughter, and on the evidence of Handsworth's friends, you'd probably only get five years. Kill us, and it'll be life for double murder."

"Australia," Wilkins replied, "freedom. I don't think anyone knows you're out here, Inspector. I could bury you both and it could be months – years – before you're found, if you're found at all."

"You could just leave us here," Lewis pointed out, "we've no quick way back, and I'll never find the way in these woods – by the time we got out of here, you could be long gone."

Wilkins hesitated, and shook his head; "No chance…"

The shotgun came back up and there was an ominous click as the safety catch on the trigger was released. Lewis took a deep breath and stared straight at Wilkins determinedly. Wilkins levelled the gun at him, sighting down the barrel, though from this distance he could not miss.

"Goodbye, Inspector," Wilkins said, and pulled the trigger.

~*~


	7. Chapter 7

There was a sudden shout, in the darkness from somewhere to Lewis's left. Without thinking, Lewis simply threw himself headlong, down and forwards, in a desperate lunge. The shotgun went off, a deafening explosion of buckshot, fire and smoke. Lewis felt the heat on his back as he crashed into Wilkins, and another figure – Hathaway!

Wilkins bellowed with rage, but was no match for the two men. Hathaway managed to wrestle him on his front and then pinned him down in the darkness, as Lewis grabbed handcuffs from his pocket and snapped them on, binding the rangers' hands behind his back. Wilkins continued to struggle, but with both Hathaway and Lewis virtually lying on top of him, this proved ineffective at best. The two of them took a long moment to catch their breath, before Hathaway reached out and picked up Wilkins' torch, which still shone in the darkness, casting odd shadows.

"Are you okay, sir?" he asked, breathlessly.

"Fine, James," Lewis assured him, "you?"

"Nothing a few painkillers wouldn't solve," Hathaway replied, dryly, touching the back of his head with a wince, and examining the blood on his fingers in the torchlight, "Sir… what do we do now?"

"I was hoping you could tell me," Lewis replied, wearily.

He was utterly exhausted; his adrenaline spent. There was a distant rumble of thunder, and the first few drops of rain smacked heavily into the trees above them. Lewis wondered, distantly, which way it was to the path. He patted his pockets, but could not find his phone, and assumed that he'd left it in the car.

"You got your phone?" he asked, glancing across at Hathaway.

The sergeants' hand went to his pocket, and a brief flicker of dismay passed across his face.

"Sorry, sir," he apologised, "I must have lost it."

Lewis simply shook his head; "Don't worry about it… come on, let's get him up."

They stood up, hauling Wilkins up between them, ignoring his bellowed curses and futile struggles against the cuffs. The rain began to fall properly, a deluge that soaked them all to the skin in seconds, dressed as they were in shirts and suit trousers. Lewis took a deep breath, and winced – his back ached, and he could feel the sting of multiple tiny burns where bits of buckshot from the shotgun had caught his back when he'd dived towards Wilkins.

"Sir," Hathaway said, shining the torch on him, "your back…"

"Not as bad as it probably looks," Lewis replied, glancing around the dark, wet woods, "not as bad as your head. How're you feeling?"

"A bit dizzy, sir," Hathaway admitted, "uh… where are we? And how did we get here?"

"I don't know, and don't ask," Lewis replied, "Wilkins, come on man – get us out of here."

"Fuck you!"

"Oh, give over, man!" Lewis snapped at him, "It's over. Now get us back to the car, for God's sake."

Wilkins growled something under his breath, and turned towards Lewis as if to comply. Then, with an angry roar, he lowered his head and charged at the Inspector, slamming into him, and knocking him over backwards. Lewis fell, hard, as Wilkins made a run for it. Hathaway hesitated, torn between helping his boss and going after the killer. Lewis, sprawled on the floor, made the decision for him.

"Well, go on! Get after him!"

Hathaway took off, and Lewis suddenly found himself in pitch darkness, without the torch there to offer any light. He managed to get to his knees and then to his feet, leaning against a tree for support. Shouting in the distance told him that Hathaway had caught up with Wilkins. Wiping blood from his split lip, Lewis stumbled after them in the dark, just able to see the light of the torch through the trees. He found Hathaway, breathless and shaking, leaning heavily against a tree. Wilkins was unconscious on the ground, a large cut on his forehead.

"You didn't kill him, did you?" Lewis asked, not really caring much.

"No sir," Hathaway gasped, as he slid to the ground, "hit him with the torch, sir."

Feeling a little dizzy himself, Lewis sat down on the ground next to Hathaway, heedless of the mud and the pelting rain. He leaned back against the tree, and gently took the torch from Hathaway, using it to examine the wound on the back of the younger man's head.

"I think you'll live," he said, at last, as the two of them sheltered as best they could beneath the tree, "though we should really get you – and him – to a doctor…"

"And you, sir," Hathaway did not need to remind him – Lewis's back felt like it was on fire.

He leaned forward, but the rain did little to ease the burning pain. A long moment passed where neither of them spoke.

"Are we going to spend all night out here?" Hathaway asked, suddenly.

Lewis gave a hollow laugh; "I can't remember the way back to the path, let alone the car… what do you suggest we do?"

Hathaway opened his mouth, closed it again, looked thoughtful for a while, and then shrugged; "We could build a shelter out of branches?"

Lewis looked at him, and the two of them, rain-soaked, covered in mud, both bloodstained and hurting, burst out laughing in the dark, wet woodland.

~*~

Morning came, and Pete Davies arrived for work. He decided to call in on Craig Wilkins first – he hadn't seen his fellow ranger for a few days, and something told him that there was something wrong. It was not like Craig to be anti-social, even if he wasn't that fond of Max. He let the big German Shepherd out of the back of his car, and his boots crunched on the gravel as he walked up the drive towards the lodge. He frowned, seeing an unfamiliar dark blue Vauxhall parked on the driveway – it was a little too early in the morning for visitors. The dry patch of ground beneath the car told him that it had been there for some time – the rain had come down heavily last night, and the rest of the ground was sodden.

"Hello?" he called out, "Craig?"

There was no reply, so Pete headed up towards the lodge. Max was ahead of him, sniffing around. Something obviously caught the dogs' attention as he stood on the porch, sniffing intently at one spot. He growled at it, and then barked. Pete picked up his pace – the bark was familiar, and usually one Max used when he'd found something, like a dead animal. Pete crouched down, inspecting the dark brown stain on the floor. It looked suspiciously like blood. A cursory search of the lodge – as the door was not locked – proved Craig was not home, and a shotgun was missing from the rack. Pete swore – it looked as if his fellow ranger had been attacked and robbed. He grabbed a rifle and some ammunition from the rack and went back outside, examining the blood once more. There were small drops of it on the porch, leading away from the larger stain, but when he got to the path, the trail disappeared, washed away by the rain. He swore again, as Max stood beside him, slowly wafting his tail from side to side, watching his master expectantly.

"Come on then, Max," Pete said, grimly, "let's just hope we don't find another body."

With a deep _woof_, Max took off down the path, and Pete followed at a jog, the rifle slung over his shoulder.

~*~

The rain had stopped just before dawn, and Lewis was grateful for that small mercy. Hathaway was either asleep or unconscious, leaning his head against Lewis's shoulder; he did not have the heart to wake him. Wilkins was awake, sitting under a tree, staring silently and sullenly at the ground, all the fight gone out of him. The torch batteries had died some time ago, and escape in the dark would have been impossible. Now, he was as cold, wet and tired as the two policemen, and had no inclination to go anywhere.

Suddenly, Hathaway stirred, and Lewis gently helped him to sit upright, as he blinked, fuzzily.

"Oh," he groaned, "it wasn't a dream."

"No, it's a bloody nightmare," Lewis agreed, "at least the sun's up. We can finally get out of here."

Hathaway tried to get to his feet, unsteadily, and eventually managed it, hanging onto the tree grimly.

"I've had hangovers that felt better than this," he complained, "can you get up, sir?"

"Aye," Lewis replied, "err… a hand?"

Hathaway reached out and helped him to get up. Lewis groaned as his back and stiff limbs protested, but nodded his thanks. They both turned on Wilkins, who glared at them.

"Come on," Lewis told him, "you're going to lead us out of here – or shall we just leave you there and come back later?"

Wilkins reluctantly allowed them to pull him up, and he glanced around.

"Need to get my bearings," he muttered, "think it's this way…"

They began to walk, trudging through wet undergrowth and slippery mud. Lewis pushed a hand through his wet hair and shivered, wondering if he would ever feel clean and warm again. He stumbled heavily over a tree root, and swore. Hathaway was too tired and sore to be amused, silently holding out a hand to steady him, before they resumed walking. It seemed to take hours, but, eventually, Wilkins led them back onto the path.

"This way," he grunted.

Lewis was about to comment, when a distant barking made him turn around.

"I think it's this way," he said, as the barking came nearer.

From around the corner, a large Alsatian appeared, and Lewis smiled in relief, recognising the dog immediately.

"Hello, Max," he said, "good lad!"

The dog bounded forward, pleased at the praise, and Lewis leaned forward to scratch the top of his head, and then patted his side approvingly. Eventually, Pete Davies appeared, slightly out of breath, chasing after the exuberant dog. His eyes widened slightly when he saw the three wet, muddy figures on the path – especially Wilkins, in handcuffs.

"What…what the bloody hell is going on?" he asked, "Craig?"

"We've arrested Mr Wilkins for murder," Lewis said, bluntly, "I'd be grateful if you could show us the way back to our car…"

"This way," Pete replied, nodding dumbly, "uh… have you been out here all night?"

"Oh, aye," Lewis nodded, "now, if you'll lead the way…?"

~*~

An hour later, they were back at the ranger's lodge. Lewis used the landline to call for back-up, while Pete tended to Hathaway's head wound with the rangers' first aid kit. Half an hour later, two squad cars rolled up, followed by an ambulance, and an unmarked black Mitsubishi Shogun. The latter was driven by Inspector Hogan, from which jumped Chief Superintendent Innocent. Lewis, catching sight of her through the window, took a deep breath, and glanced at Hathaway.

"Here she comes," he muttered, just as the door burst open.

Innocent strode into the room, with Hogan a few paces behind her. Hogan cut an impressive figure – over six feet tall, clad in a floor-length black leather coat with dark, greying hair and sunglasses, but Innocent dominated the scene. She swept her eyes across the room and fixed on Lewis.

"_There_ you are," she said, "where the hell have you been? Last night you were on surveillance – you called in to say you were tailing a suspect – and then nothing! I've had half the station out looking for you two!"

"Only half?" Lewis quipped, tiredly.

His clothes were still damp, unrecognisable under the blood and mud stains, there was a bruise on his jaw where Wilkins had head-butted him, and he was cold, tired, hungry and thirsty. Pete Davies had given him a blanket, which was wrapped around his shoulders, but did little to stop him shivering in the cold cabin.

Innocent eyed him critically, and glanced over her shoulder at Hogan; "Get those paramedics in here, now."

She reached out, pulled up a chair, and sat down opposite to Lewis.

"Tell me everything," she demanded.

So he did.

~*~

It was late that afternoon when Lewis was finally permitted to leave the hospital – Hathaway, still heavily concussed, was kept in for observation overnight. Lewis took the opportunity to go home, shower and sleep. He awoke late the next morning, showered again, and dressed in jeans and a clean shirt. It was good to feel human again. He ate a late breakfast while reading the morning paper, amused to see that news of the arrest of Wilkins had made front page news of the Oxford Mail. Few details of the overnight stay in the woodland had been released and so most of the story was wildly inaccurate, but it was a good result. The paper also reported that three student friends of the murder victim had been charged with aiding and abetting a conspiracy to commit murder, though Lewis wondered how much of it would stand up in court. It would be an interesting one – murder, manslaughter or assisted suicide? All against the law, but… that was for the Court to decide.

He tidied the kitchen, and then headed out to his car. His back was still sore, but most of the wounds were superficial – he had refused the doctors' offer to let him keep the bits of buckshot they'd taken out of some of the deeper wounds. At least he'd missed the vast majority of it.

As he drove to the hospital, he turned the radio on to Classic FM, humming vaguely to something he distantly recognised. Eventually, he made it there, and went inside. Half an hour later he emerged with a pale-faced Hathaway, who looked grateful to be escaping the hospital. He was still wearing his suit from the previous day, and drew a few stares – it had been a nice black suit, it was now an indeterminate brown, caked as it was with dried mud.

"Come on," Lewis said, "let's get you home."

"You know, since I started working with you, my dry cleaning bill has gone through the roof," Hathaway complained, "and I've ruined at least four suits already."

"That's why I only buy cheap ones," Lewis pointed out, "murder's a messy business."

"You still haven't told me what happened last night," Hathaway said, changing the subject.

"We caught a killer," Lewis replied, simply, pushing all thoughts of darkness, blood, guns and terror from his mind, "how's the head."

"Still attached, I think," Hathaway responded, rubbing his neck, "I think, sir, when I feel a bit more with it… I owe you a pint."

"I reckon the debt's all mine, sergeant," Lewis told him, sincerely, "what you did last night, when he… well… you know what I mean. Thanks."

"You're welcome, sir," Hathaway said, drowsily, "is it bedtime yet?"

Lewis snorted and smiled, and drove on steadily through the Oxford traffic. Their case was closed and the heat wave was over; for now, things were peaceful once more.

~*~

Finis

~*~

A/N - I hope that this was okay. Probably not the best I have ever written, but I would appreciate contructive feedback etc. It does take me a long time to write these and I am always grateful to hear from people who have read them. If you have any ideas or suggestions for stories I am open to inspiration! If there are any errors in this they are entirely my own and I apologise for them. Thank you for reading this.


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